When I walk through fog filled streets,

bumping into shadowed figures, tripping over feet,

their faces like smudged ink make me want to retreat,

but the forest knows my name.

Gravel grinds like grit,

intensifying as shoes shuffle in virtue of profit.

Their restlessness is enough to send me into a fit;

but the trees always share the pain.

Blundering, buzzing, small masses,

engrossed in spite and talk of classes.

The futility of struggle coats my mouth like molasses;

but mud leaves my soles with a beautiful stain.

Faux fur and faux face,

the turn of plastic lips nudging me to keep pace,

always making a small commute feel like a race,

yet the forest has no use for fame.

Masks upon masks,

each day stretched thin with menial tasks.

I sigh and stare at grey water in my grey flask.

I have never known the forest to be plain.

This place is false to me,

just silhouettes, stripped of humanity.

My forest’s rain gushes forth like the sea;

I must feel it again, if only to keep me sane.